


Lost Souls

by ChickenGoesMoo



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Demons, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Demon Summoning, M/M, Other, Peter sumons a Demon, demon Deadpool, demonic Deadpool
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-15 03:28:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19287199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChickenGoesMoo/pseuds/ChickenGoesMoo
Summary: Peter summons a Demon to kill his uncle’s murderer. Only… he changes his mind about the whole ‘killing’ thing a bit to late. Which shouldn’t be a problem except Deadpool, the Demon in question, insists that he cannot leave until the requirements of his summons are met, and his contract to take any single mortal life of his master’s choosing is fulfilled.





	1. Chapter 1

 

It had been a very long week for Peter. It wasn’t enough that it started off with him witnessing the brutal murder of his kind, loving uncle. No, he then had to deal with the guilt of not being able to do anything while his uncle bled out in his arms. He couldn’t even call for an ambulance, he had been in so much shock. Maybe if he had thought to call an ambulance, his uncle wouldn’t be dead? What if he hadn’t decided to walk home from Ned’s house when he found out his uncle and aunt had a late shift that night? Why couldn’t he have waited? Maybe he should have stopped and asked for directions before he got lost in the bad part of town? If only he hadn’t been so tired to pay attention to street names after staying up late with Ned, finishing their oh so important LEGO project.

So many maybes, what ifs, would bes and could bes whirled around in his mind. None of it changed the reality of the situation, though.

And that reality was spending Sunday night into Monday morning in the hospital. During and after that, he spent time with the police. They kept on asking him who shot and killed his uncle, and every single time he would correct them. His uncle wasn’t dead! The ambulance took him to the hospital, and they didn’t take dead people to the hospital! They were wrong. They were mistaken. His uncle was alive…right? The person they showed him, lying cold and dead on a slab in the morgue, wasn’t his uncle. It couldn’t be… but it was.

He spent the rest of that Monday comforting his aunt, who cried and hugged Peter all night. He didn’t cry, though. He was still convincing himself that this was all a big misunderstanding. It had to be a really bad dream. One his uncle was going to wake him up from at any moment.

Tuesday, he and May picked out a casket together. Flowers. Grave plot. Booked a funeral home. They couldn’t afford a lot, and even budgeting was going to put them over.

That night, Peter broke his phone. Ned just kept texting him, and MJ, too. On top of that, he couldn’t sleep because of the nightmares. When he wasn’t waking up every five minutes, rushing to the shower to scrub the imaginary blood from his body, he just lay in his bed, listening to his Aunt May cry in the next room. He wanted to comfort her, but felt undeserving of doing so. He let her husband, his uncle, die. He was useless. How could he offer her help when he couldn’t even do that much for her husband?

Wednesday he was back at school. His friend’s asked him where he was in the days prior, and he shrugged it off with a forced smile while his heart felt like it was being crushed with every breath. He didn’t deserve their pity. He didn’t deserve their kindness. He turned down an invitation to Ned’s house.

He had almost made it through the whole day of school before Flash approached him. He didn’t even get through finishing his sentence about where Peter might have been the day before when Peter all but flew at the much bigger boy, fist cocked and world ablaze.

Thursday he was suspended from school. He spent the day holed up in his room, avoiding his aunt as she scanned through adds and posts for a second and third job to keep them afloat. She didn’t even bring up his suspension, and for some reason that made him feel even worse than if she had. He spent that night awake, plagued by guilt. Maybe it would be easier for his aunt if he just never existed. She would have one less mouth to feed, one less nuisance, and one less reason as to why her husband was dead.

Friday was the funeral. For the first time all week long, he finally felt a well of bubbling hatred for someone other than himself boiling in the pit of his stomach. How could someone take the life of such a man and get away with it? Where were the cops? Why hadn’t they caught any suspects, much less any leads? What had his uncle done to deserve any of this?! How was any of this fair?!? His uncle lived a good life and never did wrong by anybody, but for some strange reason, he was the one getting buried, and some murderer was getting away, living the life Uncle Ben deserved.

The funeral passed by in a flash. So many people his uncle had influenced in his life, even fleetingly, were there to offer their condolences. That wouldn’t bring his uncle back though, and Peter already knew what an amazing man he was. Ben had taken him in, after all.

Friday night, after several tried and failed attempts to make her sullen nephew come home with her instead of sit on his freshly turned plot, she enlisted the help of Ned and MJ. The two convinced him to join them for the night at MJ’s house. She had cleared it with her parents, and Peter knew the only reason it had been okayed was because his uncle had died shortly after spending time at Ned’s, and they were afraid to trigger him. He didn’t want to, but he let his friends peal him away from the headstone declaring to the world what a good husband and uncle the man was. They dragged him to her house, ordered a pizza that he refused to eat, and watched a Star Wars marathon until they fell asleep. In an act of kindness, Peter turned off the television and made sure the blankets covered his friends’ slumbering forms. He wasn’t going to sleep again. He couldn’t with the knowledge that his uncle’s murderer was still out there, and he was sitting with his friends, doing nothing.

It was well past midnight, Saturday morning to be precise, when he tiptoed into MJ’s room after turning off the light in the living room. He was scanning her shelves for something to read when he saw it.

Well, actually it was almost like the book was drawing him to it. It was old, and distinctly leather, or some type of dried out skin. It was on MJ’s shelf of odd, quirky collectibles, right next to a shrunken head, dream catcher, bear tooth necklace, and a first edition ouija board. The pages inside it were yellowed in a way that made him suspect it wasn’t antiqued by someone, but genuinely old. Overall, the writing was an old, faded cursive in places, chicken scratch in others, and very obviously written with some sort of fountain pen.

After turning the first few pages, he realized that the previous owner and writer of the book was a woman claiming herself to be a witch by the name of Vanessa. What started as a somewhat odd tale of good luck talismans, love spells, and lust potions (all of which Peter was fairly certain were bogus), quickly turned into an account of a mother losing her child and husband to a wicked cult. Hex bags, forever burning fires, and curses were written out in detail throughout the book, listing ingredients, Latin chants, candle numbers and wax colors, and the time of day that maximized the effects of the spell. Descriptions of her victims were written in gory detail, and Peter couldn’t help but feel both ill and excited at the hope that the things he read in the book might actually be achievable.

He was so caught up in the scrawling letters dancing across the page that he almost didn’t notice the sun rising from between heavy curtains. Certain that it wouldn’t be long before his friends woke and noticed him missing. He flipped to the last page, noticed that it was blank, and doubled back until he was met with the very last entry. The items needed were sketched skillfully on the page. The dimensions of a circle were written out in the margins of the page before that, the center an image of what the final product should resemble when complete. Runes were scripted out carefully, along with their meaning. Peter hastily skipped over those as he turned the page back one last time to reveal what the last pages in the story depicted.

The writing was very different from the careful script that he had started out with, but it retained just enough similarities that he was certain the writer was the same one from the beginning. Still, it was less legible, almost purposefully so, as though projecting to the reader the slow decent into madness this woman eventually fell to. The lettering was slanted and lacked the usual space between words and letters, almost like the writer was in a rush. Peter could hardly read beyond the first line on the page, but that was all he needed to read.

He slowly closed the book, staring at the blank leather binding in his lap, deciding what he should do with it as he thought back on the words he had read.

“How to Summon a Demon to Kill those who have wronged you.”

He was certain those were the words he had read..

But things like that didn’t exist! The entire book was obviously a work of fiction.

Peter found himself slipping back into the living room with the book despite this, slipping the text into his bag. He waited an hour before his friends woke up, knee bouncing until he found a reason to dismiss himself.

He needed some chalk and a red and a black candle. He would figure out the rest from there.

Peter spent the rest of that Saturday in the empty alleyway behind his apartment while his aunt left early on job interviews. He was practically in a trance as he followed the book’s step by step instructions on how to draw out the two circles mentioned in exact detail. One was bigger, which helped considering it had the more intricate design. The other was smaller and plainer. Apparently, that was to be his circle.

He made sure to use extra chalk, sealing in the circles, whatever that meant, making the lines thick and heavy. The red candle was definitely easier to find than a black candle, but he ended up digging into his aunt’s Yankee Candle collection, deciding that it shouldn’t be too problematic if the candles were scented. He hadn’t seen it advised against anywhere, anyway.

It was getting late, and Peter was sure that if he didn’t do all this soon then the rain would start and wash away all his hard work. He snuck back into his room with the book, laying it on his bed while he read it all through one last time.

It wasn’t like it would actually do anything anyway, he thought. It was just a… therapeutic thing. Something to help him move past the trauma. It was totally normal.

His uncle wouldn’t like him messing with this kind of stuff, though. Peter was sure of it. Fake or not, the whole situation reeked of wrongness. But his uncle wasn’t there, and that was the whole point.

He read the summoning page one more time, curious as to why the spell or whatever didn’t make him offer anything.

He was dealing with a demon.

Maybe because it was designed to take his soul?

No. That was silly because Demons don’t exist except in your own mind.

He memorized a few short words, and before he knew it, Peter was confident enough to sneak down the fire escape to land a short ways away from the circles he drew.

He lit the black candle in the large circle first and then the red when he reached his own. Next, he placed himself in the center of the ring, closing his eyes and picturing the words in his head, letting them flow from his mouth in a smooth, steady rhythm.

He repeated them twice. Then three times. By the time he reached thirteen, he knew the speaking part was supposedly over.

Peter took a deep breath, opened his eyes as a dark cloud blew in overhead, the wind picking up and making the candle flames flicker in the wind. Before the wind could fully smother them, Peter picked up his red one between two sweaty palms and he blew.

The wick flickered out almost before his breath touched it, but the last dying ember, the one responsible for the wisp of smoke that always trailed for several seconds after, continued to glow. And Peter, despite the fact that he was definitely finished putting out the candle, continued to blow.

It took two seconds for him to realize that air was still escaping his lungs, and two more for him to realize that he couldn’t stop it. The smoke formed a small, translucent strand right in front of his eyes, reversing direction against all the natural laws of the world. It coiled like a snake instead of letting itself drift away, darting past Peter’s still parted lips like a striking snake before going taught like a bowstring as he began to run out of air.

The wisp of smoke seemed to know better, grabbing and drawing air out of Peter by force, making the teen loose balance with a particularly hard tug that attempted to dislodge something from his chest and yank it out through his trembling yet unable to close lips. It forced a painful, purple faced wheeze from his mouth as he fell to his knees and elbows within the chalk border. His fingers clutched the candle desperately. He wondered if this was how a kitten felt the first time it tossed up a hairball.

His vision started to blur as the wisps, which seemed to be coming from his mouth rather than the candle now, slowly began to drift to the more detailed circle at the other end of the alley. It  doused the flame of the other candle, creating a pencil-like sketch of a large, looming figure.

The longer the strand escaping from Peter’s lips became, the more detailed the design.

Peter’s eyes were watering and drool beaded from his lips because of his inability to close them or even lick them dry.

Peter thought he was becoming delusional when the smoke became a dark, lurid red color as it passed over the red candle’s now extinguished flame before fading darker and darker shades of black, filling in the empty spaces of the figure.

It was fitting that black was the last color to fill in, because as the final tug of obsidian mist escaped Peter’s lips, his whole body sagged, defeated on the filthy ground, vision blacking out along with it just as the once transparent figure of smoke took its first breath and began to move.


	2. How to fail at summoning 101

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mentioned blood, guts, violence, murder, and obviously Hell/demonic beings.

The demonic entity known as Deadpool stretched menacingly, flexing its talons and hunching its back as if it was going to pounce on its new master and devour them.

Sure, he knew already by the strength with which he was pulled and anchored to this plain of existence that he wasn’t going to be able to escape his bindings easily. The only chance he had to escape the pull at this point was if the mortal that raised him were to become so shocked at the sight of his manifesting body that it stepped out of its protective circle before the pentagram could fully cement his form on this plain of existence.

Considering the way the slick, leathery, pitch-black skin contrasted terrifyingly with the blood red pools of flesh, that was very possible. Especially with the way the red lining his body bulged with ripples of muscles when he flexed, giving off the impression of an alien trying to burst out.

He was definitely frightening enough to make mortals run without thinking of the consequences. Heck, it had happened before. Deadpool knew what a terrifying sight his summoned form was to behold. Deadpool looked like sewn together, thinly stretched flesh stitched overtop of a much too large, bipedal monster. He couldn’t wait to sink his claws into his new master if they were foolish enough to stumble from their safe space like a handful of others had before.

The more solid his form became, though, the less likely it was to happen. Within a few minutes, he would be trapped on earth for an indefinite amount of time, forced to carry out yet another unoriginal murder plot for yet another unoriginal and obvious reason. Or wait till his master perished first and the contract broke when they died. Once again, that did happen on a few occasions. People willing to summon a demon to kill someone usually had a couple people after them too. Who would have thought.

Also? Come on. After several thousand years, Deadpool had seen just about everything there was to see five times over. The only original things he had left to enjoy about life was the style in which targets were killed when the summoner failed to plan one out, or have an imagination of any kind. That was a pity.

One time, this really obnoxious dick summoned him to murder his mistress before she could tell his wife. The idiot forgot to detail how, where, and when, so he dragged the vile woman (After a few centuries, deadpool would look back on it and laugh at the fact her initials were STD long before that was even a thing) into the man’s wife’s chambers, dismembered her body on the bed, spelled out what she and the woman’s husband had been doing behind her back with her intestines, and painted a giant dick on the wall with her blood.

The dick was just for personal effect, it had no real bearing on the situation at hand. For the time period, though, he was sure that alone would have made most of the country swoon.

He didn’t know how that situation had played out after that, and honestly didn’t care. He hadn’t been summoned again in that century though, so that had to be some kind of a sign. The next person to summon him gave him more detailed instructions, so either humans had gotten smarter, or word got out of the numerous ways he found to play with his food before scattering the container it came in across the globe.

And goodness, humans never stopped coming up with more and more inventive ways to unalive each other. Swords were a personal favorite, specifically the twinsy ones that came from some eastern country. They sliced and diced like nobody’s business.

But guns!!! Oh… humans knew just what to make to keep Deadpool entertained for a few more years. After all, there was only so much fun to be had bashing someone in the head with a rock, or slipping them poison. He couldn’t wait to see what else they had come up with since his last summoning. What year was it anyway?

Oh. Wait. Right. He only had a few more seconds before his body fully solidified to hopefully frighten his summoner from the circle and maybe feast on their flesh before he was ghosted away back to his realm.

Wade took a deep breath and turned to face his summoner’s circle, ready to pull out all of the stops.

“Who DARES awaken me from my slumber in the deepest pits of HELL! I should drag you piece by piece back to where I came to suffer with me for all of…” Deadpool’s narrowed, whited out eyes landed on where someone should have been standing. Except there WASN’T ANYONE THERE! The alleyway was empty except for a chalk circle, a few piles of garbage and a dumpster.

Fuck, what was his life coming to? Getting gag summoned by HUMANS. How unoriginal. Well, actually that was pretty original now that he thought back on it. Never before had he been dingdong ditched by a summoner. He hadn’t heard about any demon that had, actually. Humans were stupid, but not stupid enough to spend all the time and effort to raise a spirit from the pits of Hell as a joke.

Deadpool’s eyes looked around, searching for maybe a second circle that the human made. Maybe this was the practice circle? But no.

Did his summoner really decide to call him fourth in a filthy ally in the middle of nowhere? OUTSIDE, none the less? Wow. They must have been desperate. Desperate or stupid. Rarely ever did they summon a demon on anything but a very flat surface, indoors, far away from any possibly tampering elements.

Still, the chalk lines were done to perfection, no cracks to be seen, not even any breaks in the runes that finally completed his binding to this plane of existence, under the command of his new, absent master.

Fuck, he hated this part. Hopefully they appeared soon and knew what they wanted so he could skip back to hell quickly and not return again for another few hundred years.

His now very corporeal bones ached as they audibly snapped into existence while magic took its hold on him, shackling him in a way only another magical creature would be able to see, drawing his very essence, stretching it out between the circles and anchoring it to the opposing circle like the chain of a disobedient dog.

Fuck, he hated that feeling. Hated the skin crawling feeling of being bound to a human soul. It was unnatural. It was like giving a mouse command over a tiger and expecting the beast to jump at the rodent’s every simpering squeak and not try to swallow it’s handler whole when given the option.

Considering the summoner some how avoided being present for the summons, Deadpool was definitely going to see if he could subvert the command into something that allowed him to eat their soul, too, before he was anchored back to hell. Normally he wouldn’t bother, even if he did have the chance. After all, eating your summoner kinda ensured you didn’t get summoned again for a while, and you had to duke it out for already dead leftovers in the pits. It wasn’t like he wouldn’t see them again when they died, too. A corrupt enough soul to summon a demon would always find their way to hell. It was like an unwritten rule.

He tapped one clawed foot impatiently before letting his gaze track back down to the summoner’s circle, wondering if he missed something important. Maybe a new rune that would clue him in on what the— “Awe, hell naw!”

There, somehow sprawled perfectly and safely within the confines of the chalk circle was a slim, barely legal looking youth, mouth slightly gaping, drool (unfortunately for Wade) puddling far away from any smudgeable chalk line, cheek smashed into the pavement and ass swaying comically in the air, almost in time with the candle gripped loosely in the mortal’s hands slightly above his head.

Wow. Talk about a hot mess. And a hot ass, but it seemed pretty strange objectifying an unconscious mortal that he hadn’t even officially met yet. After all, the moment he heard his new master speak, he might be one giant ass, and that would definitely negate the ‘hot’ part. Still, it was definitely perky enough to tempt a saint to sin. He would know, considering he had been there and done that before with a particularly nasty piece of work.

Deadpool shook his head. He was losing focus. The string bean was definitely not anywhere near his normal clientele. He didn’t handle novices. Heck, most people who were old hat at this kind of stuff still didn’t have the attention to detail or mindset to set all of this up, and novices generally weren’t desperate enough to summon a demon for any reason. He handled people who had been doing this shit for years, and still had the propensity to fuck it up royally in one way or another.

How fucking annoying and… delightfully unexpected.

How perfectly intriguing. Sure, he was a little insulted that a ratty little urchin somehow had the audacity to summon the mighty Deadpool in the middle of broad daylight in a back alley, but… maybe this is exactly what he needed to break that boring summoning streak he had going for him. Maybe this was exactly what he needed to break out of this manotanis hump of summons, murder, rinse and repeat.

Deadpool waited for the limp mortal to wake, but he didn’t. Deadpool spent the better part of fifteen minutes inspecting his body for any changes, digging gunk out from under his nails, checking if he could contort his ankle behind his head, and sighing. The most boring part of being summoned was that he couldn’t be dismissed from his circle until his master explicitly stated so after setting his task, or-

The demon felt it on it’s nose first. A quick fizzling tingle.

It looked up at the darkening sky, an even darker smile spreading across its face as the wind continued to pick up and thunder rumbled more audibly in the distance.

Well, looks like little wannabe warlock was going to learn the hard way why people didn't do summons outside if they could help it.

Five minutes passed, the sprinkle turned into a downpour, yet still the figure slept on. Maybe if it actually woke up, it might have had the chance to securely bind its demon to their bidding, but they were too incompetent. Every summoner worth their salt knew to be well rested and well fed at least a week leading up to a summons, no matter how small. This one had obviously neglected that and was now going to pay the most fatal price.  

Their mortal and immortal life, if Wade was feeling it.

Wade flexed and took a prowling step forward as the rain melted both of their circles and carried them away, down the alley, across the sidewalk and into the storm drain.

What a waste of perfectly good talent. Then again, this human was obviously in way over its head, and nothing but it’s own hubris had landed it there. Some older summoner probably bet it that it couldn’t summon a demon of his caliber. It happens. Usually it ended with Deadpool killing one or the other, depending on their success.

As the last line of chalk melted away, Deadpool felt the bonds anchoring his existence to his summoner weaken. Maybe that wouldn’t have mattered if he were a lesser demon, but he knew one good flex of his essence and those now threadlike bindings would snap and his new (soon to be old) master would be helpless against him.

He took one step towards his summoner. Then another. He relished the feeling of having them completely at his mercy except… for the fact that they were just lying there. Lifelessly. Except for the shivering, of course.

Deadpool’s stitched together, halloween-like mask of a face forced a barely noticeable frown.

What was the purpose in any of this if there wasn’t a little bit of groveling to go with it? Wasn’t this supposed to be the summon that broke his boring, repetitive cycle of murders?

Deadpool sighed, leaning down on the balls of his extraordinarily large, springy black feet, and instead of snapping the mortal’s neck, gripped it around the center of its torso, tossing its extremely limp, 100 pounds soaking wet form over his shoulder where it hung limply like a fox skin scarf.

Decoration was all this mortal was good for at the moment, apparently.

Deadpool shook his head, making his way down the alley, only pausing to shift his form into something more appealing to the general public when he heard a commotion around the corner. He could turn himself invisible to mortals as well, but he doubted the hysterical woman he heard screaming at the top of her lungs would take too well to some scrawny, half drowned rat floating in the air. That wasn’t exactly an easily broken norm.

He let the downpour of rainwater wash over his features, boiling away the demonic mask and colors, replacing them with the soft (for a demon) features of a strapping, attractive, able-bodied man with a cocky smirk and confident strut.

He checked himself out in a puddle before humming an off key tune and exiting the alley. Sometimes being a demon had its perks.

“Peter!!! PETER PARKER!!! Peter?” The woman trembled as the demon attempted to make his way past her without attracting attention.

Of course, he couldn’t.

Damn him and making his vessel too attractive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Devral for Betaing this chapter again, and thank you all for the Kudos and comments!!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Devral, for betaing! You are a blessing!


End file.
